


Apricity

by VitricHearts



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Angst, Gorgeous, Komahina - Freeform, M/M, P.S. my writing style is always changing don't judge too much, Romance, eloquent writing, fear of losing someone, hinata is waaay too nice in my mind, i can write well but you can tell I'm a fangirl, i make these characters too perfect sounding, i started writing komahinaegi instead, i was supposed to be writing komahina dates, i'll get back to sweet#hart soon i swear, komaeda is hinata's dulcinea, komaeda probably isn't this beautiful sorry, komahina fluff is so imaginary, people should really use the word apricity more, then i got bored of that so i did this, whoa i did not just say that i'll shut up now, writing this fic caused me to have komahina dreams from hinata's perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3173612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VitricHearts/pseuds/VitricHearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hinata-kun, will you sit outside with me, please?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apricity

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Angel, who makes some gorgeous things in MMD that leave me awed (Komaeda with cat ears is just one thing amongst the many). Thank you so much for being such a fun and wonderful friend, and I (and Izuru) love you.  
> So this is just fluff. It's fluff. It's fluff, post-game, a tonne of kissing, with an undertone of angst, but still fluff. I imagined this with Japanese VA and game-play. Comments and Kudos are always appreciated and heeded. Do enjoy. xx

“Hinata-kun, will you sit outside with me please?”

 

It’s a polite request, a daily routine, a favoured habit. It’s something he thoroughly enjoys and looks forward to from the very moment he wakes. If the morning mist clears and the rays of the sun are clement, you know he’ll want to go. Even during the winter months, when the breeze is too bitter for comfort, he’ll surely insist on it. You’ll shake your head, disagreeing, but then he takes your hand, adopting that saccharine smile, pleading with you, hopeful…

 

And still you don’t agree, you honestly don’t, but you leave the facility anyway, resignedly bringing him into the open air. Even with your gaze mulishly averted, you notice how he smiles even wider beside you, his conversation gratified, so you don’t linger on the issue for too long. At least this keeps him happy, right?

 

Because for whatever reason, he likes to sit outside.

 

When you find a quiet place to sit, alone together, he immediately lays his head in your lap. This kind of contact stopped making you blush a while back; it occurs regularly now, and you can tell he’s fond of it. He settles his head across your thighs, curled upon the ground akin to a wilting flower that has somehow retained some of its primary beauty. His hair is downy and it spills across your denims like gossamer cotton. Unable to resist, you thread your fingers gently through his silvery locks, knowing and adoring the deceptive silkiness of his hair. He closes his eyes at the soothing sensation, expression tranquil, and he probably doesn’t know it, but he’s really stunning.

 

It happens to be a bright day today, the winter draught remarkably bland (a worthy act of good luck, considering he’d _only_ spilled scalding-hot coffee over his entire torso earlier). Jabberwock Park isn’t entirely the same with the solemn-looking facility looming at the centre of it, but the fringe of trees and grassy layout invites nostalgia. You look up occasionally, in appreciation of this, although your attention is more often drawn to the individual huddled below. He curls contentedly against you and the yielding blades of grass, the touch of the sun exalting every inch of his body. His skin glows almost, an ethereal effulgence, and when your darker fingertips brush over his cheek, you marvel at the contrast. Other people might declare him pallid, chalky, sickly, grey, but to you—

 

He is unblemished, seraphic. He has the glow of an angel.

 

He breathes gently through his mouth, nestled as though he intends to sleep. You keep silent, letting the backs of your fingernails run gentle patterns along the sides of his face. He doesn’t say much out here, and you have spent a great deal thinking about why he likes to go outside so often if only to lie down in the grass and have you caress him. He loves being physically close to you, this much is obvious, and you don’t mind it in the least. You understood that he’d possibly flit from total social autonomy to frequent intimacy the moment you’d reciprocated his love. If he likes being near to you, then that’s comforting. It’s better if you keep him close. You’d worry too much for him otherwise, if he lacked an anchor. It’s consoling that he relies on you like this.

 

The sunlight is gentle, and the morning is so quiet. He’s silent too, very silent. There are times when he falls asleep against you, and after a moment of watching that muted expression, a pang of anxiety will seize your heart. Sometimes, when he grows especially still, your fingertips will twitch, finding the underside of his jowl and searching swiftly for that faint pulse that confirms he’s alive. Sometimes he’s not actually asleep and he notices you do this. His eyelids will flutter open, irises silvery under the glint of the morning sun, and his hand will wander up and take your own before it curls into a fist. His expression is pitying, almost naturally so, but you get the impression that he feels sorry for you too.

 

On this particular day, to sate this trepidation of yours, you lower your hand to his chest, resting it gently against the front of his thin shirt. His eyes remain closed, his lashes contrasting starkly against creamy skin, and in his position, he’s so at peace. It’s very slight, but you recognize the occasional rise and fall of his torso, and your gaze becomes half-lidded in self-assurance and relief.

 

He’s still alive, thank goodness.

 

There are of course times when you want to feel guilty for this disquiet of yours, except it’s hard to ignore. What you feel is entirely justifiable. Most people wouldn’t worry so much; indeed, they suggest that you fuss yourself over him to too great an extent as it is. He isn’t _that_ fragile. Even he might say the same thing, if only in a more subtle and self-deprecating way, which only works to pique your worries further. But… you aren’t fussing. You’re just afraid. Legitimately afraid.

 

Because when you hold him, it’s never enough of a reassurance. You hold him, but sometimes, he still feels like a ghost.

 

…You just don’t want to lose him again.

 

You sigh to yourself in half-hearted admonishment, gently gathering his hair back and pressing a kiss to his forehead. He is faintly warm, like a sweet late-season apricity. You must have his full attention, drawing him from his fatigue, because he stills entirely for you. You move your lips to his next, delicate, and he breathes softly over them, as though returning life. The sensation has your heart thrumming. Before you realise it, you’re touching your mouth to all of his face, memorising those contours that define him. You revise sharp cheekbones, the tip of his nose, the dip under his lower lip, the slant of his jaw, the smoothness of his temple…

 

“Hinata-kun…?”

 

He breathes, and it’s a question. You lean backwards to meet his eyes, and he gazes up at you with that curious, irreprehensible gaze, a swirling tempest of thoughts. You don’t say anything for a while, studying him with unmatched adoration, but eventually you respond by bowing down again, touching your lips to the side of his mouth, and then fluttering your eyelashes across his cheekbones. You know he loves this particular gesture because he shivers, and his lips always curve into the faintest of smiles, sensitive. You pull back again, the corners of your mouth turning tenderly up at him in return.

 

His expression is joyful, never brighter, and he states firmly, lovingly, and with great substance:

 

“Hinata-kun, I definitely want to die in your arms.”

 

You stiffen when he says this, the smile leaving your face in a faltering instant. Your fingers clench into fists, your stomach drops, your throat dries, and a shudder runs sharply throughout your every limb. He notices your change in demeanour immediately, gleaming grey eyes widening with the realisation of what he might have said.

 

“Ah- ah-”

 

He stirs and sits up quickly, your arms sliding rigidly from him without resistance. You can feel your heart hammer, cold and fearful, but it’s meaningless when he turns towards you and his one cool hand takes the left side of your face, directing your attention unto him. Dazedly, you recognize his expression as being notably disconcerted.

 

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way, of course! Don’t look so pale, Hinata-kun, it was a worthless thought.”

 

It takes you a moment of careful consideration before you begin to ease up again. Your muscles relax, although they still feel heavy with the weight of his declaration, and your hand slowly progresses upwards to settle reassuringly over his own. You trap the slight warmth of his palm against your skin, reinstating the heat to your face. The sensation is, in a way, inspiriting, and you sigh again, heart-rate gradually returning to normal.

 

“Komaeda… don’t say stuff like that.”

 

Your gaze is downcast when you speak, but your tone is especially serious with him. His expression is hesitant now, his manner validating.

 

“Yes, but I… I wasn’t lying. I’ll always be most comfortable in your hold. Even when I—“

 

“Don’t,” You warn, resolute, pre-emptive, and he immediately falls silent. You still can’t meet his gaze; yours is trained upon a dewdrop clinging determinedly to the underside of a grass-blade. (Sometimes, you feel like you have to exert a similar determination.) You interlink your fingers among his, bringing them down into your lap.

 

“That kind of future… is one I don’t want to think about. So don’t talk like that, please.”

 

He doesn’t say anything, but from the corner of your eye he manages a vague nod. He probably isn’t very convinced, because he’s the type of person to embrace both good and bad alike without any hesitation, but at least he understands that it upsets you. There’s no use pushing it further, so long as he knows not to repeat such morose things…

 

Silence takes over from here, stained slightly uncomfortable. The wind has picked up, and it whistles past your ears, ruffling the grass in its sweep. He makes no move to lie down again, although you wouldn’t have minded if he did. You hold his hand properly, rubbing your thumb across his knuckles, and after a short while, a thought occurs to you and your eyes wander over to his folded legs.

 

“Komaeda, I have a request.”

 

He glances up at you and blinks, curious, although with an air of complacency.

 

“Ah, sure… for Hinata-kun, anythin—“

 

You pull yourself around and down before he can finish, landing your head into his lap with a slight thump. His legs are a little bony, and they don’t support your neck quite right, but you shift and resettle yourself until comfortable. He jolts, surprised and notably ticklish.

 

“Hnn—! Hinata-kun! What are you…?”

 

You look up towards him, holding his bemused gaze. He looks especially nice from below, you reckon. The ever-present sunlight glints gently off of his face, defining his cheekbones, catching at sterling irises, swiping at the curvature of his lips. You raise a hand and brush your fingers gently against his skin; his cheeks are warmer now. You smile when you realise that your actions are likely the cause.

 

“You don’t mind this, do you? I like being held sometimes too, you know.”

 

He doesn’t say much but he doesn’t resist, and there’s definitely some visible colour to his cheeks now. After some hesitation, he decidedly lifts his hand towards your face, and as it approaches, you close your eyes in anticipation of his touch. His fingers are soft, and they ghost across your skin so gently you shiver, your lips parting in release of a contented breath. Under the strokes of the sun and his adroit fingers, your face relaxes easily, your breathing is pacified. How soothing.

 

His hand weaves its way through your hair, thumb caressing the shell of your ear before halting entirely. There exists the slight temptation to open your eyes, to question why he might’ve stopped, but these thoughts are demolished when you feel the gentle flounce of his hair against your forehead, tickling your cheeks. It’s a sensation you’re so very familiar with, and your heart beats calmly when it’s followed by the sweet touch of lips to your forehead. Clutching at the grass, you’re easily absorbed by that mouth, brushing gently along the bridge of your nose, grazing the backs of your eyelids in no lovelier a gesture. He’s so solicitous in his movements, so careful with his kisses, that it nearly leaves you breathless. You almost forget to kiss him back when those gracious lips find yours, soft and enticing, but honestly, how can you?

 

Cosseted in his loving embrace, under a deluge of kisses and the warmth of the winter sun, your world is, if only for a moment, faultless.

 

Eventually he draws back, his mouth parting from yours with a natural fluidity, his wispy hair lighting off of your face. When you open your eyes, you immediately grin up at him, and he half-smiles back, knowingly.

 

“So this is why you like coming out here so often. I’d love being pampered like this everyday too.”

 

His eyebrows quirk a little in defiance, but you both chuckle because you know your words to be rather true. You lean up a little then, to nuzzle his cheek, and the lovely smile that curls at his features is more than a little reassuring. It stirs you up on the inside, like the mellowness of his kisses, like the heat of the sun.

 

You beam up at him, gratified.

 

“Hey, Komaeda… Let’s sit outside tomorrow as well, okay?”

**Author's Note:**

> And thus, I have committed the greatest of literary evils... Komahina fluff.  
> Shoot me! *spreads arms*


End file.
